


hold it in, hold it in

by TheFandomEater



Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Past Child Abuse, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 11:19:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4704182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFandomEater/pseuds/TheFandomEater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You never know how many false sympathies and awkward avoidances can be passed your way in a single day until you come back to school after trying to kill yourself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And Opens Purple Summer

**Warning for semi-graphic depiction of a suicide attempt near the beginning**

You never know how many false sympathies and awkward avoidances can be passed your way in a single day until you come back to school after trying to kill yourself. Moritz swore he was in the low hundreds by the time he’d reached his second class. _Great way to start your 11th year_ he thought darkly, sliding into the empty seat nearest to the door.

* * *

The last year was...rough, to say the least. His dad kicking him out had been yet another lash on his back, and it was the one that broke it. Ilse turned back after he stopped calling for her, and by the time she’d trudged to the graveyard with his coat in hand, ready for returning, he’d already slit both his wrists. Considering the graveyard was right across the street from the hospital (he wouldn’t be so stupid next time), he was reached in time.

In the wake of his attempt and the beginnings of a slow recovery, an investigation was launched into the case of his parents, which led the Polizei to his teachers, and ended with two open teaching positions and Moritz without a bed to sleep on (good thing he’d be in the psych ward for the next month).

He honestly hadn’t expected Melchior to visit him; he was busy enough dealing with an almost-child who was actually dead; he didn’t need an actual-friend who almost was. But of course, Melchior was never one for following expectations, and he was the first face Moritz had seen when he’d woken up.

As soon as he’d seen him, he’d prayed that he was dreaming. “Not you, too…” Moritz mumbled in disbelieving despair. “At least I know I wasn’t sent to Hell. How did you go?”

Melchior blinked away his exhaustion from waiting overnight for his friend, and tried to puzzle out his drug-addled brain’s meaning. Eventually he figured it out, and in another situation a smirk might be lighting his face. “You’re not dead, Moritz; we’re both alive and in the hospital, and--”

He was cut off by a wet laugh from the bed beside him “Of course I’m not dead. I can’t even die right!”.

Moritz grasped at his head, his laughter turned to sobs, _I didn’t do it, I failed again, failed failed I failed failure such a failure_. Melchior put his arms around his friend, mindful of the bandages layered over both arms. He started up a rocking movement as he desperately tried to calm Moritz, alternating between frantic shushing and a litany of consolations. Outside of this moment Melchior had never felt so paternal, and he prayed that whatever child he ends up having in the future never goes through a pain such as his dear Moritz was in.

“I couldn’t imagine you dead, I just couldn’t--don’t you do this to me again Moritz,” he mumbled, pressing a kiss to his messy curls as Moritz’s choked sobs halted and they rocked gently together. Slowly succumbing to his exhaustion, Moritz leaned into his friend’s arms.

“Never again.” Melchior finished, before he, too, drifted to sleep; two ships shored together in a storm.

Since that night, Melchior visited him daily, then twice a week once Moritz had been moved to the more restricted psych ward, filling him in on all the latest philosophies, or just letting them lapse into a familiar silence (once, he’d tried to bring in a chessboard, only for Moritz to begin bashing his head against the wall when he’d been check-mated. It had turned out to be conflicting medications that caused the break-down, but Melchior hadn’t risked it since).

On one of his first better days, Moritz dared to ask what had become of Wendla. He stiffly ground out that she had started schooling in London, then returned to his ramblings on Freud vs. Jung.

Moritz wanted to say he never asked again, but a day later Melchior had been called in (a special favor from his nurse, Effi) because yet another risky med combination had resulted in a major dissociative episode, and Moritz had completely forgotten where he was and why Melchior was not with him. When Melchior arrived, he saw his friend backed into the corner opposite the door, holding a pillow in front of him. After assuming the same position he had that first night in the hospital, he ran through all the recent events leading to where they were, and after a moment Moritz blearily asked why he wasn’t with Wendla instead.

As the end of the month drew nearer, Melchior grew desperate on behalf of his near-sedated friend, who still didn’t have a home to return to once his tenure in the hospital ran out. After much discussion with his mother, a solution was found: Moritz would come to live with them.

Being his devious self, Melchior managed to have the arrangements swiftly done-up behind Moritz’s back; once the day came that Moritz would be released, Melchior was waiting for him in the hospital lobby with bags packed full of what Moritz would quickly realize was his things from his old house.

“Well?” Melchior said, his typical smirk almost being overpowered by his overwhelming excitement, “Are you coming home or what?”

* * *

The school bell rang just as Melchior slipped into the last seat, conveniently located right beside his best friend. As Moritz was met with yet another gleeful smirk, he said the same thing he did that night two months ago; “Of course, you fucking dickhead.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how German school works, so I'm doing my best. I promise, this will be one of the fics I actually update (also I already made a mix for it http://8tracks.com/thefandomeater/hold-it-in-hold-it-in ). Thoughts?


	2. With the Flutter of Its Wings

Moritz found that even with a proper night’s sleep, and without the fear of his father’s punishment if he were to fail, Latin was far from his best subject.

When he gave the wrong answer to Fräulein Baumgartner, he flinched on instinct but the blow never came. Instead, she corrected him gently, and had him repeat the complete phrase before sitting back down. Still, the incident set him on edge, and he flinched when Melchior rested a hand on his arm.

“You’re alright, Mori; no one’s going to hit you.” He whispered into his ear, and that was enough to help Moritz focus back on his studies.

The rest of his classes passed much without incident, though he felt Melchior’s absence in the periods he didn’t share with him. He’d grown so accustomed to his friend’s presence whenever he may need him, or even when he was just bored and craved human interaction. In his last class, history, he tried talking with the girl next to him (he believed she was a friend of Wendla’s… Martha, he wanted to say). Once he’d stumbled over hello, she’d smiled at him slightly before making a gesture at her throat to show she’d lost her voice. Her hand brought his attention to her neck, where a scarf had slipped down to reveal growing bruises in a shape he was all-too familiar with: a handprint. Making a note to ask Melchior if she was alright, Moritz turned to his work again.

Once school had ended, he waited outside for his housemate to step out from his advanced classes. Melchior did so seconds later, and a grin lit his face as soon as he saw Moritz sitting at the front steps: he didn’t know how much he could miss seeing that dopey mop of hair until it was almost gone.

“You ready to go?” Melchior asked, drawing his attention.

“Just waiting on you, Melchi.” he responded as he rose and began the walk home with his friend. Home. Moritz couldn’t ever remember referring to his old house as that. It was always “My dad’s house,” or, on his more rebellious days, “Hell.” Now he was walking up to a warm estate with the closest person he had to family right by his side.

When Moritz had first come to the Gabor’s, they had been more than willing to set up the guest bedroom for him but by the time night came Moritz was shuffling into the room across from him and Melchior was beckoning him to the bed blearily. The nights following progressed much in a similar manner, with an overwhelmed mop of curls being welcomed to the calming embrace of his closest friend so that his mind would be quieted long enough to sleep. Eventually, Moritz managed to sleep in his own room, but each morning he awoke to see Melchior’s door standing open, just in case.

“Moritz?” he was brought out of his reverie, standing in that same doorway as Melchior looked at him expectantly. Not waiting for a response, his eager friend dragged him into the room and onto the bed; “Alright, tell me about your first day back. Was anyone insensitive? If one of the new teachers said something, I’ll have a complaint drafted in an instant.” The utter conviction of his words warmed Moritz’s heart, yet he couldn’t help but chuckle at his friend’s itch to write letters of complaint.

Shifting closer to Melchior on the bed, he punched him lightly on the shoulder. “No, Melchi; the pen and paper don’t need to come out today. It was… Nice,”; as he said this, he clasped his hands together in his lap and stared into them as if they were the blue stockings of a girl and the contents in-between.

Melchior bumped his shoulder, “Oh come now, be honest. Was it bad? Too many people? Were Hanschen and Ernst getting… Hansy?” he finished with a grin, wiggling his fingers for added effect. The red rising to Moritz’s cheeks sent Melchior into a fit of laughter, with Moritz following shortly after and commenting on just how accurate that statement had been (it was really a mystery that the...friendly pair hadn’t been punished for their PDA by a staff member. Still, they had the rest of the year to make up for that, and by their behavior that day they certainly were trying for it).

Once they had calmed down, Moritz decided to be honest with Melchior (something his therapist said was especially important now that they were living together). “Today was kind of hard. People kept staring at me, and whenever one of the teachers I had last year corrected me on something they got this… Pitying sort of look? Or maybe even scared? Then they’d look at me for the rest of the period like they thought I would pull out a knife right then and there.” Melchior flinched a bit, and this was something his therapist had also said he needed to work on: tact.

Whatever reply Melchior had was cut off by an alarm going off on both of their phones: His read, “Remind Moritz”, and the other read, “Take your meds -Melchior”. With a sheepish grin, Moritz hopped off the bed and made his way to the bathroom.

 **  
** “I guess this sc-scintillating conversation will have to wait,” he tried to joke on his way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha didja see that shitty ending? Sorry for the delay, school just started up and I'm in the musical (Into the Woods, not SA for obvious reasons). Still, I promise no scheduled releases: just know that this is far from forgotten and I'll update when I can


	3. The Butterfly Sings

As soon as he got into the bathroom, Moritz reached into the medicine cabinet, fingers dancing over where the pill bottle used to be before settling on the days-of-the-week pill case he now used; Moritz wasn't going to take the bottle-full, but the first night he was left alone with it the container had fallen out of his shaking hand and he'd sat rocking on the floor for Melchior’s mother to find him there. After that, they'd both decided it would be easier if he only had to look at his pills for the day.

Some part of him whispered to skip the pills today, but like always he pushed that down and swallowed them, splashing some water to his pale face before returning to his studies.

As always, Moritz walked in on Melchior with a look of pure worry on his face, which he tried to mask as soon as his friend entered. On his better days, Moritz would find the concern irritating, but after an overwhelming day it was nice to know someone else was looking after him.

“C’mon, Milky; it's art theory time.” Melchior feigned offense at the old nickname and closed his Latin notebook, giving a last longing look to Virgil before pulling out the only one of his notebooks that he hadn't already tarnished. It may have just been the first day of school, but he had a knack for wrecking notebooks even with summer homework; his mind just worked too quick for tidiness.

His art theory notebook had been spared due to both the lack of summer homework (even Melchior, king of inventing work, couldn’t find anything in-curriculum) and his lack of interest in the course. For once, it was Moritz who hyper-focussed on the work, getting top marks in the placement tests for the class. Melchior found that he welcomed the switched roles; seeing his friend so animated about something was worth taking the backseat and letting Moritz be the tutor for once.

The excited teen was ready to start his lecture on the course, but he was hit with a memory.

The smell of burning paper, his father shouting, the taste of salt running into his mouth; Vater was burning his 2nd-year art journal, screaming that no son of his would-and now here Moritz was — _ God his dad would be so disappointed why’d he have to be such a f _ —

“ — Moritz, Moritz it’s alright. You're at the Gabor house, it’s September 27th, your dad isn't — no it's okay Mama, I've got him, I think he’s coming out of it.”

The boy in question’s cheeks flushed red; Melchior had assumed their standard positions, running his hands through the head of hair rested freely in his lap, his touch heavy enough to be noticed yet easily withdrawn if necessary. By now he knew this was nothing to be ashamed of, as both the people with him now had helped him through more flashbacks and panic attacks than Moritz even remembered, and this one was short enough that he was surprised he’d even been moved.

Melchior had stopped his repetition of where and when and safe, giving Moritz room to appraise those on his own, but he hardly found it necessary; instead he used the time to ready his voice. 

“M-maybe this course is j-just… Too advanced for you,” he joked weakly, and after a few beats Melchior's focused and patient face was broken by a surprised laugh.

After taking a moment to let his amusement calm, he responded in kind; “With a teacher as skilled as you? I'm sure even a rapscallion like me could understand eventually.”

His motivation restored, Moritz flipped open the textbook and began in earnest.

* * *

 

As it tended to happen, the boys had long since abandoned their schoolwork in favor of catching up on a tv show and trading horrible jokes back and forth (which always results in them having to rewatch the episodes anyways. It's definitely worth it). 

“It’s getting late,” Moritz began, stretching and making his way towards the door, “I better get home soo…  I mean, I’m heading back to my room now. Goodnight, Melchior.” The other teen didn’t comment on the slip up, knowing it was just the flashback from earlier leaving him a little off-kilter; instead he sent him off with his own farewell.

The next two days went smoothly enough that by Friday, Moritz stayed after-school for lunch. Melchior had used to stay after and tutor other students almost every day, Moritz accompanying occasionally (because really, was he expected to stay home with his father?), but they’d both come home instead to get  Moritz adjusted to the new year. It took more convincing than the older teen had thought; Melchior was so passionate about tutoring other students that Moritz had assumed he’d be eager to go, damn the consequences, as per usual. Then again, with everything that happened that summer, Melchior had seemed to have grown up considerably.

As they walked into the lunch hall, he was briefly overwhelmed by the unrestrained  _ noise _ of it all, but a simple touch to his friend’s hand brought Moritz back to his mission; the reason he’d convinced Melchior they should come:

Martha Neumann.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (yes i am back. sorry?)  
> i have a vague idea of where this will go but would honestly love help  
> "Why does Martha have a last name??" Neumann means new, and she's getting a chance to be new; they all are.


End file.
